


Each In His Own Time

by Naina



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Friendship/Love, Gen, M/M, Offscreen character death, offscreen relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-06
Updated: 2011-04-06
Packaged: 2017-10-17 16:18:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naina/pseuds/Naina





	Each In His Own Time

It's been a good day. Fairly quiet, which is nice. Even someone who thrives on action as much as Jim Kirk does can appreciate slow days like this. It gives him the time to catch up with the actual 'work' part of his job - mission briefs, department reports and the like.

He returned from his lunch break about an hour ago, a smirk still lingering whenever he remembers the triple-entendre Sulu made about fencing, and the color Bones' face turned as the doctor tried - and failed - not to spray his juice over the remainder of his meal. It's in the middle of a mental chuckle that the chill sets in. Jim pauses, one hand poised with the stylus over his datapad. He could swear it feels just like someone snuck a half-melted ice cube down the back of his shirt. Impulsively, he reaches up and touches the back of his neck; it's perfectly dry, though covered in goosebumps. Huh. He frowns and shrugs to himself, going back to work.

Maybe it's because it's so quiet and there's nothing to fully distract him, but as the end of his shift approaches, Jim realizes that the chill hasn't faded. It hasn't exactly intensified, either, just morphed into a feeling that something is...off. Wrong. He sets aside his pad and stands, gaze moving over Sulu and Chekov in front of him, then clockwise over the span of the bridge. People are busy at their stations - Spock at Science, Uhura and her colleagues at Communications. Security. Engineering. No, nothing is amiss here. Frustrated, he picks up his pad again, flicking through recent tasks he's completed on it, stopping when a star map catches his attention. It's of the quadrant where Vulcan II is located, and the goosebumps return with a vengeance when he taps on the image, zooming in on the small red planet.

 _Spock._

Jim swallows, carefully wrestling the cold fear down.

A quarter of an hour later, his shift is mercifully up. On his way to the turbolift, he stops at Communications to make a request. "Lieutenant, if any messages arrive from Vulcan II, please send them directly to my quarters." He waits to make sure Uhura and her team understand what he's asking - don't read or listen to those messages; if they come in, pass them straight to me - before nodding his thanks and leaving the bridge. He knows his request has caught his first officer's attention, because the last thing he sees before the doors swish shut is Spock's head tilted, eyes meeting his in a quizzical stare. That means something, but Jim doesn't want to think about that at the moment, not with this chill making the hairs on his arms stand on end.

Safely in his quarters, he changes into soft pants and a t-shirt, makes a cup of decaf, and settles on his bed to wait.

It's been months since he last saw the old man, at least in the flesh. They speak often, either in written or audio/video messages a few times a month at least. There had been a video call about a week ago that hurts him to remember; Spock's voice had been so quiet Jim had finally put on some headphones in order to hear him properly. They hadn't spoken for very long, either. A bit of chat about the number of Vulcans headed to Starfleet this year, the newly appointed Ambassador to Earth, and Jim didn't want to think about some stranger in that position. Still doesn't.

Not even an hour later, his computer dings. Jim sets aside his mug and exhales shakily, sitting up to open the message on his screen. It takes but a few seconds for his fears to be confirmed, and for the first time he feels absolute disgust, hatred even, at the extent Vulcans go to suppress their emotions. The message is short and direct, mincing no words. Jim knows, intellectually, that no harm is meant: the message, to a Vulcan, is perfectly logical. To a grieving human, it comes across as cruel.

***

"Jim?"

A hand brushes his shoulder. Jim twitches and lifts his aching head to find his first officer standing beside the bed.

"Spock." His voice is fuzzy; a glance at the chronometer tells him nearly three hours have passed since he read the message. "What are you doing here?"

"We had arranged to play chess at 2000 hours. When you did not answer your door, I took the liberty of using my override code." He pauses. "Something has upset you."

"I..." Jim swallows hard, the pain still sharp. He motions toward his monitor, "A message came in, from Vulcan II."

There is silence for a minute while Spock turns the monitor towards him and reads the message. When he's finished, Jim leans over and turns the machine off. "You can sit down, you know," he murmurs. The Vulcan hesitates, and then does so, removing his shoes and scooting over to lean against the bulkhead beside his friend. Several more minutes pass before Spock breaks the silence.

"I am sorry to hear the news. I know you and the ambassador were quite close."

The sound Jim makes might be a chuckle, were he amused instead of heartbroken and grieving. "Yeah." He wipes his damp cheeks and sniffs, ignoring the fact that his eyes are welling over as he does so. "We were close."

He closes his eyes, taking much comfort from the press of Spock's side - all the way from shoulders to thigh - to his own. He's wondering when the hell his personal life became so complex (probably the moment he laid eyes on Spock's older self) when he feels the light, tentative brush of fingers on his face. Jim blinks a few times, turning his head to see Spock staring back at him, as human as he can be even with those Vulcan features.

Spock's hand moves, but not to retreat. His thumb wipes away tears, while his other fingers stray towards the psi points. "May I?"

Jim nods, unable to speak. They have mind-melded a few times in nearly six years, and his skills at it, while meager compared to a Vulcan's, have improved. Still, his control is shot and he's worried about revealing things his friend has no business knowing.

 _I will only see what you show me, Jim._

 _The cold of Delta Vega. Admiration mixing with disbelief at the old Vulcan's tale, gratitude, then doubt and worry over the task to come. Brilliant sunshine, catching sight of a tall figure, waving his fellow graduates on - relief and quiet pride, the spark of a first kiss slipping into easy contentment. Years and missions pass, dotted with visits to a hot, arid planet. The time they spend together is quiet and, for the most part, chaste, but he knows that he's loved - and in love - the same way he knows he is breathing. A body put through too much for one lifetime begins to fail, and each time he leaves or signs off is more difficult than the last, colored with fear and regret and guilt._

They come out of the meld, Spock's hand lingering on Jim's cheek for long moments before dropping to his shoulder. "The urge to be with loved ones at the time of their death is not felt in Vulcans."

"I'm sure." He knows the bitter tone won't be taken personally.

"It is regrettable that you could not be with him," Spock says, and Jim hears the sincerity of the words. "We could be at Vulcan II in time for the service, however. If you would like me to accompany you, I would be honored to do so."

Jim's throat tightens at the offer. He's sure Starfleet will want a representative there anyway, and who better than him? Than the two of them, really. "I'd like that, yeah. Thanks."

Spock turns the computer back on and hails the bridge, telling whoever's manning Navigation to set a course for Vulcan II. Jim closes his eyes and lets his head rest on the other man's shoulder. His heart hurts - it will for a long time, he knows that - but it's not as overwhelming, now. Slim fingers drift through his hair and over his temples, soothing raw nerves.

"Rest, Jim."

In his mind, he hears _you are welcome_.


End file.
